She doesn’t need to gesture to my waiting wardrobe malfunction to get her point across. “So troublemakers like you don’t get any bright ideas.”
All I’m hearing is that she thinks I’m smart.
I cluck my tongue, trying to suppress the flattery that wants to ruddy my cheeks. “Ye of so little faith. But fine, state your ‘rules.’” I emphasize the air quotes with my fingers. I didn’t realize she was running such a tight ship. This is tutoring, for fuck’s sake. Not the military.
Staten, self-satisfied, turns her nose up, relishing in the fact that I’m the equivalent of a mutt waiting for its owner’s next command. A once-fearful predator made of scars and skepticism roaming the turbulent streets—only to be domesticatedby the first girl who waves a piece of meat in its face. And a hungry belly doesn’t compare to a loveless heart.
“One: no flirting of any kind. Not with me, and definitely not in the form of advice,” she declares, putting a metaphorical foot down.
No flirting? That’s like my entire personality. What, does she want me to go mute during sessions too? And she knows damn well she needs flirting help. But hey, if she wants to embarrass herself in front of Cheekbones McGee, then she can be my guest.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re failing Intro to Literature. We’re far past fun.”
She’s got you there.
I deadpan, “Your next rule?”
“Two: this transaction is to be strictly professional. I’m not here to get to know you, and you’re not here to get to know me. There’s one goal, and that’s raising your overall grade. Capiche?”
Not getting to know her? Does she even want this job? Does she even have any human emotions? And yes, I realize that’s saying a lot coming from the king of commitment phobia. This is gearing up to be one of the most depressing negotiations I’ve ever made.
“That’s a little sad, don’t you think?”
“Are you going to have an opinion on every one of my rules?” she huffs, rolling her eyes like I’m the one being difficult here.
For the first time in a long time, my heart aches—a strange phenomenon that didn’t even occur when I lost three of the girls off my roster in the span of a week. It’s as if it belongs to someone else, and my chest is merely an incubator to keep it beating. My body is nothing but a shell, floating in a sensory deprivation tank, only cognizant of the boundless purgatory holding my consciousness hostage.
“Only the ones that suck,” I parry with growly disquietude.
Why can’t she just let loose and have fun for once?
Staten ignores my snippy side comment, serving the final deathblow without any grace period whatsoever. “Three: once your grades are to your liking, this arrangement is over. We go back to being strangers.”
How can we go back to being strangers if we never stopped?
Now, the hurt is waxing, spreading, infiltrating parts of me that I thought were impenetrable. Maybe I didn’t expect us to be the best of friends, but I didn’t expect us to stay enemies.
My breathing hitches, the heat from my shower spinning my vision like a bad case of vertigo. My knees want to buckle despite the wall that’s holding me upright. “I think that’s the worst rule of them all.”
Her tone assumes a lightheartedness, but it doesn’t placate me in the slightest. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Stop making this a big deal, Knox. You’re paying for her services. That’s all. She has every right to set boundaries with you. Why are you so caught up on this girl? You have your pick of the whole school. Plus, your dad isn’t covering your tuition so you can paint him a fool.
I squeeze my eyes shut, then force them open, the warning signs of an incoming headache weakening my fight. “And you’re stubborn. Haven’t you heard that business and pleasure always mix?”
“I’m pretty sure the saying is ‘business and pleasuredon’tmix.’”
“I guess I’m just the exception.”
“Annnd you’ve already broken rule one. That’s a new record considering we haven’t even started yet.”
Fed up and teetering on the brink of madness, I stride toward her and fling my arm out to bracket the side of her head, my voice dragging over her in a low-frequency rumble. My half-naked body is nearly flush against her hoodie-cladone. “Keep a tally. I’m going to prove to you that these ‘rules’ of yours won’t last one week.”
“You’re right. You have absolutely no self-control,” she retaliates, her chest expanding with a timid breath, everything south of the border shifting to either outmaneuver me or pummel the self-inflicted distance between us.
I curl a rebellious strand of her hair around my finger before tucking it behind her ear. “Oh, it’s not me that I’m worried about.”
